Hopelessly Ever After
by Indigo2831
Summary: Season 6 Spoilers.  An ending is really just another beginning.  This is the story about the year Sam and Dean spent apart, and how they found themselves on painfully different paths. Grief-torn Dean, Hurt Sam, Fatherly Bobby.
1. Shock

This story is just a parallel of the brother's lives in the year after they thwarted the apocalypse.

I swore I wouldn't start another story until I am done with the unfinished ones. However, this story was bouncing around in my head like a little kid, begging to be written so much that it's nearly done, so they're will not be any long waits for chapters. Scout's Honor. Please let me know what you think, even if you're not feeling it. Thanks!

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**Hopelessly Ever After**

Dean would never remember the two days after Sam fell.

He found himself in the bathroom of Lisa's house, staring at the dusky blue walls. The threshold was salted, his pearl-handled revolver in one hand, a bottle of booze in the other.

He'd put the gun to his head so many times that there was a barrel-sized ring of pain on his left temple. But he was shaking so hard, rattling with the fury of grief, that even if he could find the strength to pull the trigger, it would probably miss its mark.

Grief was a numbing, icy cold inside of him, chattering his teeth and rattling his body. It was mounting and doubling and swelling. The whiskey didn't numb it, and the gun would break his promise.

So he stared at the walls, a twilight blue with white trim.

The doorknob rattled mightily. Dean stared at it blankly, not caring what was on the other side. The screws popped out, one by one, and even his dulled instincts had him training his gun in that direction.

The doorknob fell to the wooden floor with a bruising thud. Sunlight sliced into the room. Lisa barely flinched at the gun.

He couldn't speak or think. The world didn't make sense without Sammy. Up was down. Beautiful was ugly. Sin was sainthood. He guzzled the bottle as Lisa said words to him, hearing nothing but the roar in his ears, Beelzebub's sinister laugh in his ears. He was disarmed without a struggle.

"It's been days, Dean. Where's Sam? Did he…is he…dead?"

"I wish," Dean rasped, voiceless. "_I wish he was dead_."

Lisa's eyes were big and brown, and her face was open with compassion and fear. "What could be worse than dying?"

Something paternal clicked inside of him and he twitched violently, still huddled in the bathtub. "Where's Ben? D-don't let him c-come in. I need…"

Lisa cradled his face in her hands. They were warm and soft. Contact should have hurt, but it helped, like a balm over his ragged soul. "Ben's not here. I sent him to a friend's house. It's just you and me."

Dean grabbed her wrists, trying to find a foothold.

"Where's Sam, Dean? Should I call someone? I think you're in shock or something…you're freezing."

Dean shook his head, teeth chattering again. "_Sam fell. He's gone_."

"Oh God, I'm so sorry."

"Everyone else is dead. I don't have anywhere else to go. Sam was…Sam was everything I had."

Lisa pressed her forehead against his. "You can stay here. You know that." She climbed in the tub where he was huddled and pulled him against her. "We'll take it one step at a time."

"What's the first one?"

"Leaving the bathroom."

He gaped at the door like the foreboding, evil thing it was, because just beyond it was the life that he'd have to lead now: one without the hunt, without adventure, and impossibly without Sam.

It was impossible, more so than the justice of Sam being strapped to that rack, being hacked at, carved away.

Broken and gnarled with misery, he sobbed without tears and withdrew a little bit more until the walls of the serenely blue bathroom darkened and warbled as he sank further into despair.

"It's okay," Lisa whispered as she guided his head to her shoulder, "the first step is always the hardest. I'll stay here until you're ready."

-1-

Sam would never remember surfacing from hell. He'd just remember the glare of the sunlight artfully muffled by stormclouds. He blinked and breathed air into empty lungs, waiting for the grotesque punchline, Lucifer's great unveiling.

He liked to play with Sam, like a zookeeper taunting a caged bear. He dangled respites from unfathomable torture in front of him, let him be whole, let hope crackle and sparkle like a match to kindling, only to yank the rouse away and start in again with excruciating, soul-scarring pain.

This was the best one yet. Stull Cemetery, complete with wilted grasses beneath his calloused hands, air ripe with water in his lungs, and a weeping willow looming above.

Sam closed his eyes, feeling the drag of gravity that hadn't been there before. He felt the scrap of his soiled jeans, the rough lilt of bark through the soft cotton, the crack of his bad knee when he shifted.

There was a thunderous rumble, from above, and Sam clenched his fists and braced for terrible, gutting pain, but only saw a scorching flash of light followed by rhythmic snap and crackle. Sam scrabbled against the tree, bark sandpapering off his skin, eyes darting around.

The cemetery was _alive_. Vibrating and undulating like some dark thing was slithering through the tangled grasses and viney boughs. Leaves rattled and swayed. It took him too long to figure out that the silver drenching the field, and budding on gravestones was _rain_.

There was no rain in The Cage.

His heart didn't beat in The Cage; and it was racing now.

Sam laughed, hoarse and crazed. He pressed his palms to the wet earth there and laughed again before shifting his weight to his arms to try to find the borders of his body. It was longer and heavier than he remembered. He pushed upwards and managed to balance his cumbersome weight on the balls of his feet. Standing up was more difficult than he imagined.

After the sixth time he fell, he lay in the dirt, letting the driving rain washing him clean and renew his senses. He crawled a few feet until his hands knocked against something rough. He lifted his head to discover a hand-made cross lashed together with what looked like a strips of plaid flannel. The water gathered and prismed off something in the middle. Sam's warbling vision couldn't decipher what it was, but his fingertips tactilely painted the picture his mind couldn't. It was a ring of silver. It represented purity.

Sam held it up and rolled it between his fingertips. It was painfully familiar. It took him too long to identify the ring. Memories of a time before cutting bars, bewildering pain and an ominous, devilish voice were far-flung and blurry. By the time he'd remembered that he had a brother, that he'd fallen into The Pit to right a lifetime of wrongs, the ground was slick with mud, the sky was darker.

Sam was sitting on his grave.

The silver ring was Dean's, who'd must have constructed a cross there in an effort to cleanse it. It was a hunter's blessing. It was the best he could do.

With a snap of fabric, Dean's ring was tucked into Sam's pocket, the fallen brother determinedly clamored to his feet and began his first staggering steps home.

He staggered out of the cemetery, aching and weak. There were pockets of shadows in the trees that lined the road. Sam's heart constricted as primal fear lit up his body so fast it nearly dropped him. He was shaking again, and now fighting rattling tremors on top of the exhaustion and pain.

The snap of the gravel beneath his bare feet was the locked of Lucifer's Cage, trapping him for eternity. The rustling crackle of wind in the trees was the growl of approaching hellhounds. The flashing crimson and white of the approaching firetruck was the blinding light and the slickness of blood that he saw as he fell. It was all coming back, the torture that disintegrated his very humanity, and the assault on his physical body was devastating.

"Sir, can you tell me your name?"

"Are you hurt?"

"Sir, where are your shoes?"

"Were you assaulted?"

There was a warm hand on his arm, and the swimming from of a woman with a badge. Sam jerked away at the contact, snarling like an abused stray. All of his instincts told him not trust it. He couldn't trust it to have it taken away again. This was just an elaborate joke with a macabre punchline.

"I'm sorry, sir. I'm trying to help you."

He backed away from the approaching officer, agitated and dizzy. She could be a ghoul or a demon. She could be anything.

"Sir, can you talk to me. Maybe tell me your name."

"…I'm n-no one," Sam gruffed.

The cop moved frighteningly fast until she was suddenly in front of him. "I want to help you. Please give me something."

Sam couldn't think. The light hurt his eyes. The rain on his skin reminded him of horrible things, like congealing blood and his own slippery intestines. He swayed, barely upright on his feet. The cop darted forward, hands on his arm and back. From some anguished place, Sam screamed. Sam was falling again, plummeting into paranoia and madness. He was powerless to stop it. He'd a warrior for eternities, and he simply couldn't fight anymore.


	2. Breakthrough, Break Out

_Thanks so much for all of the wonderful reviews. I really appreciate them. Here's another chapter. Please let me know what you think. _

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**Hopelessly Ever After – Chapter 2**

The grief was killing him like some methodically patient beast, who thrived off the fluidity of pain, the unhurried trudge to death. Dean just wished it would hurry the hell up.

He was awake, eyes dewy, stomach roiling with acid. He couldn't tell if that was hunger or from the booze. The bedroom was almost completely dark save the brilliant yellow sunlight humming around the edges of the black-out shades. He burrowed deeper under the covers, and tried not to feel ashamed at the backslide he'd taken.

He'd been doing marginally better. Lisa was more tolerant and definitely more crazy than Dean ever would have thought. She'd lost her mother a few years back, and knew the nuances of grief. That made her smart enough not to try to eliminate his drinking, but to limit it. She'd encouraged him to talk with one-hundred percent honesty about anything and everything. Dean didn't know how to start. There weren't words. But he'd tried and Lisa said that was good. So Dean wrote in his journal, not about hunting or monsters, but to Sam. The letters were mostly about things he'd tell him if he were still alive, the things he missed. It gutted him to admit what had happened between them and how they were was still so many unhealed wounds between them.

Then the basement had flooded due to a crack in the foundation and Sam's duffel had been destroyed. Dean had nothing left. Lisa and Ben had cleaned up the mess. Dean had stolen a bottle of gin from the helpful neighbors and he'd been in bed two days, burdened with this horrible promise. He wished he'd never come here. He wished he would have parked on the side of the road and blown his brains out like he'd been aching to do. He wished he could kill and maim and torture just because that's what was happening to Sam.

There was a rustling outside the bedroom door. Dean grunted and squinted at the shadows underneath it. He scrubbed a hand over his stubbled face, and sat up. It was nearly four in the afternoon. Lisa wasn't home from work yet, and that meant—"Crap." He muttered.

He pushed the liquor bottles under the bed just as there was a timid knock on the door. "Dean…"

"It's okay, get in here, kid."

The door opened and Ben peered around it, unusually uncertain. Light tumbled in behind him and burned Dean's bloodshot eyes. Ben seemed a little scared and reluctant, standing rigidly at the threshold.

Dean needed to teach the kid how to make some strong coffee. "What's up…you need something?"

"Um, I…think I did something that…you might be mad."

He'd snapped at Ben a few times unnecessarily. He'd always apologized, but sometimes it was hard to keep the anger in check. He'd scared him too when he patrolled the house with guns drawn or woke up screaming from nightmares. Dean wondered how much his presence in the house was screwing up Lisa's child.

"I won't get mad," he said gently. "I promise."

Ben entered the room completely, arms tucked behind his back.

"Whatcha got there? Did you break something? You can always say I did it. I owe you a few, right?"

Ben's eyes were hooded and he shifted from foot to foot. When he spoke, it was in a whispered mumble. "Parker and I were playing in the basement…and um, I wanted to show him how big Sam was and how cool his stuff was, so…I took stuff out of his pack and I forgot to put it back."

Ben drew his arms in front of him. He was holding one of Sam's beloved flannel button-ups, wrapped inside the worn blue fabric was Sam's journal. They were a little rumpled, but beautifully unruined by the fetid, muddy sludge that had soiled everything else.

Ben was still stammering with his little shoulders drawn upwards like he was bracing himself for Dean to yell. "I'm sorry…you said Sam's a hero and I wanted to show Jones. He has that really cool dirt bike and he kept bragging, but this is…"

Dean was hugging the kid before he realized he'd moved. His eyes were swimming as he gasped, "thank you, thank you…"

Ben's head rested on his shoulder, falling into the affection. "You're not mad? You told me not to touch his stuff."

"I know what I told you, I'm not mad, dude. I'm glad you didn't listen to me." Dean pulled back and held Ben by his shoulders. "Next time that Jones kid starts braggin' about that dumbass dirt bike, we'll show him the Impala, okay?"

Ben's face lit up like fireworks. "Really?"

"Yup, but just the not the trunk, though, okay?"

"Sure." Ben was vibrating again with the exuberance that only children had even though he swore he was a man. "That'll be epic!" He bounded out of the room.

Dean fell back on his bottom, and touched the shirt with extreme reverence and soul-crushing sadness. He wasn't sentimental—a lifetime on the road hadn't allowed it. That didn't stop him from pressing his nose to the collar and smelling Sam's cologne and aftershave. Jess had given this one to him, it was ugly as sin, pink and flowery, but Sam only wore it when he was in a good mood. "Guess I'm the bitch now, huh, Sammy?"

Dean hung the shirt in the back of the closet, tucked the journal under his pillow, and tried to salvage the day.

Grief was as malignant as a cancer. It was always there, rising and retreating like the tide. He'd been waiting for something—a personal Hail Mary from the big man upstairs as a thanks for his service, but it wasn't coming.

Sam was gone. And his last wish had been for Dean to live. As much as he wanted the grief to swallow him whole, he had one last duty as a big brother.

Dean washed his face, brushed his teeth and shaved. He took one more look at Sam's shirt in the closet and decided to make good on the promise. For his brother.

He found Ben in his room listlessly playing video games. "Kid, you wanna help me with something?"

Ben's head swiveled to him and he nodded instantly, dropping the game on the bed. "What are we gonna do?"

"Man's work. We're going to fix that crack in the basement."

Ben darted in his closet to find his shoes, and wiggled out of his shirt to put on an older one. "Cool! Hey, _Deeeean_, maybe we could do a trade, like I help you and you we can do stuff, like 'guy' stuff?"

Dean lifted his eyebrows, wondering how this kid wasn't his. "Sounds fair. You should make a list of guy stuff we can do."

Ben bounced on the stairs. "There's a park around the corner, we could play football! OOOH! We have a decent baseball team, we could go to a game! And one day, we could go to the big arcade at the mall…and then we could…"

Dean found himself smiling for real as Ben's enthusiasm bled into him.

That night, with Ben snoring on the couch from his long day of a digging, Dean ordered a pizza and opened a beer for Lisa as soon as she came through the door. He watched her eat at the kitchen table. When she was finished, Dean tried again. The words had never been there before. It had all seemed too big or too painful. He'd started off like he always did, opening and closing his mouth, starting sentences and trailing off. Lisa's hand settled over his, delicate but strong and Dean turned away, watching the lamppost across the street flicker and flutter, and it came to him, not like an epiphany or an idea, but more like the break of a damn, the splintering of a stubborn will to keep suffering and keep people out. Because Lisa had took him in and Ben looked at him with those adoring brown eyes, and Dean couldn't feel like this forever. "My mother was killed…when I was four. There was a demon in Sammy's nursery and she was just trying to protect him…"

-S-

Bobby Singer had many tales to tell.

He'd killed his wife, been arrested for her murder, fell into a bottle and managed to climb out when he found out why.

He'd saved a lot of lives and when it finally felt like he'd made up for killing the only woman dumb enough to love him, he retired.

He'd never had kids of his own, but he'd adopted a two idjits from a hunter crazier than him.

He'd been possessed. He'd been paralyzed. He'd stared the devil in the face, and lived to tell about it.

Bobby stared at the doors of a Kansas county hospital, and thought about all of those stories, and how none of it prepared him for the phone call he'd received while tracking down leads on a wraith two states over. A nurse that the very hospital he was eyeballing had called him, stating the police had picked up a disoriented young man on the side of the road a few miles north of Stull Cemetery. He appeared to be in shock and severely dehydrated, but he'd managed to give them a next of kin, and that apparently, was Bobby.

He unscrewed the cap of his silver flask and took a long pull. Unfortunately, the Johnny Walker Blue did nothing to ease the old hunter's anxiety. The nurse had given Bobby the description he expected: tall, built like a bulldozer, blue eyes and brown hair.

It was Sam, or even worse, some evil sonuvabitch wearing the kid like a bad suit. Either way, Bobby had to know.

The nurse had a kind face that belied her no-nonsense disposition. She rattled spoke fast and walked faster and before Bobby was prepared, he was standing outside of the room that held Sam.

Hope wasn't an emotion that hunters often felt, because it was foolhardy. The bottom always dropped out and allowing hope just made the fall that much farther.

Bobby sighed, knocking his baseball back further on his head and peered through the dust-clouded square of glass to peer at the man inside the room.

The kid looked an awful lot like Sam Winchester.

And a paternal rage flashed through him. "Why is he locked up?"

The nurse lifted her eyebrows at the tone. "He was in shock, exhausted and dehydrated when he got to the ER. As soon as he was hydrated, he decompensated. He took out a nurse and three security guards before he could be sedated."

Bobby's face didn't even twitch. He stared her down, waiting for more.

"He kept screaming about demons and…the devil, so he was transferred here."

Bobby's heart illogically soared. "All right, let me in."

"Mr. Singer, there's one more thing," Nurse Cramer said, trailing the swipecard to the room nervously around in her hands. "He keeps asking for salt."

His weathered face folded into a sly smile as he tucked a hand in his jacket and pulled out a small canister. "Brought my own."

The Thing That Could Be Sam was actually in an honest-to-goodness padded room, like the sanitariums he remembered his uncles whispering about when he was a boy. Except this one was cleaner and well-lit, even if it smelled sweaty and unclean. The occupant was bundled in a freakin' straight-jacket, crumpled on one side in the one shadowed corner. Bobby approached him carefully, trying not to let himself succumb to the clutches of hope and failing miserably. Losing Dean had been as gut-wrenching as it came, but waking up reborn to find Dean fashioning a cross at Sam's grave…it was more than he'd ever thought he'd live to see.

"Sammy," Bobby called out.

Sam's eyes barely flickered. They were a dulled blue. Bobby dropped to a knee, still overjoyed to feel the pop of the stiff joints in his legs. It took one look in the dilated, glassy eyes for him to realized that Sam was still drugged to the hilt.

Bobby set the salt down, and reached in his pocket and pulled out the holy water. "Are you thirsty, Sam?"

On a light day, Sam Winchester was a beast and as heavy as one too. It took a good amount of grunting and shifting to get him upright, especially with Sam twisting and whimpering at the contact. "Okay, kid," Bobby whispered. "Let's have some water, huh?" He tipped the flask, Sam choked at first, but drank steadily. No hissing. No fizzing.

Sam's eyes snapped to his and focused intently. He licked his lips, "Lucifer's…angel. M-make the symbol."

Bobby's eyes filled. Because _that_ was Sam Winchester's genius at work when he was as weak as a newborn pup and back from a vacation in down under.

He nodded, cut his own arm and smeared the Enochian symbol on the wall like Dean had taught him, smacking his palm in the center. Sam barely flinched.

Bobby dove for the straps of the straight jacket. "You got sprung, huh, kid?" He was grinning like a snakeoil salesman with a trunk full of cash.

Sam nodded, but his head didn't rise after the second bob, so Bobby barely heard the rasped, "Dean's dead, huh? I k-killed him. E-everything's muddled."

Bobby's shaky hands worked the jacket off. Sam was sweaty and too-hot beneath it. His pale arms peppered with bruises and scrapes, knuckles raw. Sam's left hand was locked into a fist.

"Dean's fine, Sam. He's in Cicero."

Sam said nothing.

"We forgot silver," Bobby muttered.

"Don't need it." That fisted hand overturned and slowly opened to reveal Dean's ring, bloody and embedded in his palm before he closed it again. "G-get me out of here."

It didn't take long to get Sam signed out of the hospital. Bobby had documents and a silver tongue, but he didn't even need them. He showed them Sam's untreated hand, put on his stern face, and less than an hour later and one bandaged hand later, they were on the road to Indiana.


	3. Holiday

Hi. I did a few major edits to this part. This story kind of kills me, because it's hard writing the boys a part and getting into Sam's head is...not fun, but it's carthartic. I hope you like it. Let me know either way.

Thanks again for the reviews and alerts! They really mean a lot.

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**Chapter 3**

Dean slinked into the house, smelling of booze and nicotine and freshly fallen snow.

He took off his coat and stuffed it into a plastic bag along with his other shirts. He tied it tightly, and dropped it next to the laundry machine. He grabbed a clean hoodie from the dryer. Dean hadn't gotten a job yet, but spent the day up hitting up bars along the Illinois border. Thanks to his still-sharp hustling skills, he'd made a little an easy five grand.

The holidays always seemed to tease out latent dysfunction—people needed to drown their sorrows in beers and bad behavior, and he'd made a killing. And it was nice, stepping back into the past, swindling losers out of their cash, and feeling the energy of truck-stop drive. Dean couldn't say he didn't miss the life, miss his car and the open road. He'd actually smiled and flirted with the bartender, and he'd turned his right, expecting to find Sam hunched over a newspaper or some lame novel Dean could barely understand. There was no one there, of course, no emo-Sasquatch, just an empty barstool and a bleeding hole in his heart.

So he came back to the house, bereft about Sam and the approaching holidays.

He moved out of the laundry room and was startled by the softly glowing colors littering the walls, the glitter and tinsel, and the gleam of a thousand bulb ornaments on the kitchen table.

He sucked in a deep breath, smiled winningly, and padded into the living room. Lisa and Ben were decorating the biggest Christmas tree Dean had ever seen. There were forgotten cups of cocoa on the table, Christmas carols playing on the stereo. Dean half-expected an elf to toddle around the corner.

"Did Christmas throw up in here?"

Ben popped out from the side of the tree. He was giggling and bouncing around like a kangaroo. "_Deeean_, we always do the tree this time every year. I'm glad you're back. We have a surprise for you." Ben said with wide eyes.

Ben and Dean had become fast friends in the five months since he'd been there. And he loved surprising Dean. His energy and glee was Dean's saving grace, and he loved that kid more than life.

Lisa pushed her dark curls over her shoulder and smiled along with her son. "Sit." He kissed him quickly, frowning at the smoke clinging to his skin. He shrugged and sat.

Their relationship had been a bit slower. Grief had changed Dean, leaving deep and permanent scars. It had also left him more than a little impotent. He loved her without the sex, and it was a hard, passionate, you-saved-my-life love, not the short-lived lust he'd thrived on as a hunter. Lisa was beautiful, all mysteriously dark features and a dusting of freckles, and she was also compassionate, funny and pretty damn cool.

Dean dropped into the soft black couch, unsure of what to do. This seemed like a Braden tradition that he was intruding on, and the thought of Christmas just wanted to go sit in the Impala and mourn in the dark. But he owed it to them to try.

"We have our ornaments. We make some every year. We made one for you."

Dean's eyebrows lifted as Ben pointed to the ornament, made out of a circle of cardstock and outlined inexplicably with colored buttons, but his name was spelled in out in pristine lines of glitter. "Wow, dude, I love this."

"Really? You don't think it's lame?" Ben was inching towards that line between child and teenager, listening to himself or doing what was popular and cool. This, however, seemed to be important to him.

"No way, dude, it's…been awhile since I had a Christmas tree. And I've never had my own ornament. Thanks, kid." He pointedly did _not _think about his last Christmas Sam gave him before he died.

"That's what I thought. I can show you how to make more ornaments if you want. We forgot Sam's."

Lisa froze. Dean nodded surely. "You want to make his for me? I'll join you in a second."

Ben nodded, unfazed. He liked stories about Sam, and Dean loved telling them. Ben sometimes acted as if Sam was on an extended vacation or away at school. "Can I? What colors did he like?"

Dean smiled. "All of them…except red."

"Got it."

Ben darted off to sit at the kitchen table and Dean settled into the comfort of the couch, watching Lisa decorate the tree, barefoot.

"You disappeared today," Lisa said as she handed him an ornament. Dean begrudgingly got off the couch and put it on the tree decorated in colored balls and twinkling lights.

The tree was real, and Dean wondered how she'd gotten it into the house.

"Thought I'd earn my keep. I don't like being a kept bitch, ya know?" He tossed the wad of cash on the table. He took her glass of wine and sipped from it.

"Have you ever thought about getting a real job?"

"Like the 'punch-a-clock, wear-a-tie' kind of job? I'm pretty sure I'm allergic. Besides, I have no skills and I'm dead, remember?"

Lisa sighed and took back her glass of wine. "Dean, you know…this is your home, right?"

"Uh, yeah, I have an ornament and everything." He grinned.

"Smart ass. I mean, like, you can unpack your stuff…and put down roots. You keep acting like we're going to have to pack up and move all the time."

"I've lived my whole life like that, hard habit to break."

"Dean…come here."

Lisa dragged him off the couch and down the hall where her study was. She'd been going to college online and often holed up in the purple-accented room while Ben and Dean played videogames or watched television. She opened the pocket doors and gestured grandly. "Fix this room."

"What?"

"It's boring and I hate it. Take the money you made from doing God-knows-what and make this room _awesome_. Knock crap down, smash things, do whatever you want. Make a mancave."

"You're serious?"

"As a heart attack."

Dean laughed, tickled, and stared at the bland room with just four walls and a desk, imagination stirring. "One more question: where do you keep your sledgehammer?"

-s-

Dean had always pegged suburbia as a place where yuppies went to die a painful death from boring jobs and lack of excitement. But this block was pretty cool. A Christmas blizzard had steamrolled their tiny town. The city was shutdown, but it didn't stop people from celebrating, in fact, it seemed to spur them on. Kids were out playing in the bluffs of plowed snow, dragging sleds up and down the block. Neighbors were opening their homes to each other.

On New Year's Eve, Dean and Ben shoveled off the deck, thawed out a bunch of meat, and had a winter barbecue, while Lisa invited friends over. Soon the deck was filled with husbands, drinking spiked cider; the yard was filled with screaming little kids, and the kitchen was filled with gossiping wives and babies. It wasn't bad, actually, the heat of the barbecue kept Dean from freezing to death, and he met a lot of guys from the neighborhood. They probably couldn't kill a Wendigo or exorcise a demon, but they were welcoming and friendly. He'd already been invited to a basketball game.

Dean had smothered the fire in the grill and headed inside as the temperature was rapidly dropping and snow was beginning to fall again. The house was filled with animated chatter and easy laughter. Children scuttled up and down the basement stairs. The Christmas tree flashed and twinkled in the corner. There was a crackling fire in the fireplace and friends in the living room. Despite everything, Dean was assaulted with overwhelming sense of home, of an intimacy that he'd never found in the dive bars or diners across the country. It was so disturbingly extraordinary that it took his breath away.

He stumbled into the room that Lisa had given him, the room that he had finished just before Christmas. It wasn't a mancave, though there was a gigantic movie screen and three oversized theater-style seats parked in front. On the far wall, there was a huge desk flanked by built-in shelves that Dean built himself for Lisa, and a set of beanbags and a hanging chair that Ben had been enthralled with at the store. It was a space for all of them, to play and grow, as a family. Dean hadn't even realized it until now.

He sat down in the desk chair. Silver poured in from the window and there was chatter echoing in from the kitchen outside. Lisa entered, sliding the pocket door partly closed. She looked beautiful in the red sequined tunic with heeled boots. She sat on his lap, pulling the bobby pins out of her hair. "The countdown's coming up. The champagne is ready, and the kids are all cracked out on sugar."

"Okay," Dean said. The darkness compelled him to whisper.

"This room is amazing, Dean. I showed it to Sid, and he wants to give you a job with his crew. Three days a week, cash only." She met his eyes with a sly simper. "I told him you were Canadian."

Dean winced. "Oh, shot to the heart."

Lisa unbuttoned the collar of his shirt. "The holidays suck, huh?"

"…not as much as I thought. I had fun today. I just…" He bit his lip. "When I was ten, we squatted in his house. Dad knew the couple that owned it were on vacation. It was huge, marble floors, big fancy kitchen. And they had a friggin' movie theater in the basement. Sammy and I loved it. And it was one of those silly things I held onto. I always said, 'when I had my own place, I'd have one of those'…and then one day I stopped wanting it, because I knew it wouldn't happen. And Sam…Sam had always wanted a desk…"

"Like the one you built me?" Lisa wondered.

"Bigger. He'd read anything he could get his hands on, but…dad limited him to five books like we were real soldiers. I used to stuff as many books as I could under the seats of the Impala and in my duffel. Because he couldn't have a real desk with real bookshelves."

"And the hanging chair?"

Dean huffed a laugh. "The chair's just badass…"

"So you built the room you always wanted? Why?" She sounded awed and honored.

"Because I'm home." He declared. "I don't know why I fought it so much."

At that moment, something within him changed, shifted. He looked at Lisa and saw more than a caretaker or a friend. He saw the woman who sat with him in a bathtub for thirteen hours; the woman who never forced him on a shrink, never looked at him like he was crazy; who trusted him with his kid and let him into her bed. He saw a woman who looked damn good in a red dress. He was drawn like a planet in orbit. He kissed her hard and deep, tasting the wine she drank and smelling her perfume.

He distantly heard the popping of noisemakers and the heralded arrival of the New Year as only Dean Winchester could.

-3-

Sam still wasn't used to breathing—the fulfilling pull of an exhale or the emptying lull of an exhale.

He wasn't used to the bigness of his body or the freedom of its movement.

He wasn't used to everything feeling so small or unimportant. He'd surpassed life and death, and had taken the very devil inside him. He felt a cryptic solitude inside of his own head, his own body. He'd felt violated beyond expression, all polluted soul and broken psyche.

Sam's memories were tampered with, jumbled up and muddled, like he'd been taken apart and reassembled wrong. With pieces missing.

He could only stitch himself back together the best he can and move on. How, Sam didn't know.

So, he ran, focusing on nothing more than eating up miles with his long legs and big body, the blissful inhale-exhale of breath. There was something confident and violently defiant that bloomed within him as he ran and prayed to Castiel. Because with every stride, every time his feet hit solid earth and felt the irreplaceable heat on his skin—another reassurance that he was alive, and not in the cage, being stripped of skin and limbs and of the very essence of humanity.

But then there were times of nearly insurmountable darkness, where he couldn't escape it, when he was wild from all that he'd endured. When It is a very real thing, a nefarious beast lurking in the edges of his peripheral or a demonic laugh inside of his head. Because Sam was more than just haunted by Lucifer, he was consumed by him.

Sam limped into the house after his daily run on blistered feet. He felt quieter, despite the pain swelling behind his eyes. He grunted at Bobby as he passed on the way to take a shower. The headaches were common—worse than migraines—but Sam could handle them. His pain tolerances were different now. He stretched for his cool down, adrenaline fighting the pain more than medicine ever would, and drained a liter of water.

A few minutes later, he was stooped under the too-small shower head. Water, feeling clean, was another innocuous miracle of being topside. When he first arrived at Bobby's, he'd taken seven showers a day, amazed by the fluidity of it.

There was a soft knock on the door, almost timid, but Sam still stiffened, braced for an attack. "It's me," Bobby called quiet but firm.

Sam relaxed. "I ran to the windfarm and back," he declared, scrubbing his hair. "That's, like, fifteen miles."

"Next stop, Boston Marathon."

"Yeah, maybe."

"You want anything special for dinner today? I'm headin' into town."

"I don't care." Sam ducked his head and waited for the inevitable inquiry.

"Or we could hit up the diner you like on the way out of town, and go see your brother."

Sam's lips turned upwards in a poor imitation of a smile. Bobby asked every day. And Sam had gently turned him down. He remembered what he did to Dean before he fell, felt his hands breaking his bones and Lucifer's lilt of glee; remembered what happened in The Cage. He was so beyond repair, and he knew Dean would drop everything to try to fix what wouldn't be fixed. He couldn't face him.

Yet the more sure-footed he got, the more his resolve was weakening. Dean had always grounded and reassured him. He needed that wordless communication and big brother guidance. He'd finally broke. "Yeah, Bobby, why don't we leave tonight?"

-s-

Bobby hadn't expect Sam to give in so easily. If Winchesters were anything, they were obstinate, bull-headed men who dug in more rather than surrender. But he'd seen Sam's growing struggle, heard him calling for Dean during the rare times he slept. They both knew that if anyone could help him, it was Dean.

The weeks after the mental hospital hadn't been nearly as hard as Bobby expected, except that Sam didn't sleep at night. He didn't like darkness. He didn't like barred windows or locked doors, often slept outside just after daybreak. He had nightmares and attack of feral panic at loud noises and sudden movements. Bobby just drank more coffee and approached Sam cautiously.

The drive from South Dakota to Indiana was an arduous one. Sam couldn't take enclosed spaces for very long, so they stopped often, before he panicked. Bobby relished in the time with the younger Winchester, taking him to shopping malls and campy interstate attractions, buying him whatever he wanted.

They arrived at Dean's four days later. Bobby had parked two blocks away at Sam's instance. They'd walked along the dark suburban street. Sam admired the roses and the perfectly maintained lawns like a man on a new lease on life should. Despite Sam's new darkness—the inability to be touched or the flashes of profound anguish—he was happier than any man in his position had the right to be. And maybe reuniting with his brother would fix what Bobby and time hadn't.

If that didn't make Bobby Singer believe in miracles, he didn't know what did.

They reached the Braden home, and inside parted curtains, Sam and Bobby beheld the new family. Dean was sitting at the table, passing a plate of food to Ben. Lisa joined them and Dean smiled, unguarded and candid. When Lisa leaned over to kiss Dean like two people invested in a life together did, Bobby was re-thinking his years of atheism.

Until he turned to look at Sam.

There was no overjoyed smile or even a move to cross the street and knock on the door, just a sobering wistfulness that broke Bobby's heart.

It was everything Sam had wanted, everything he'd fallen to protect and his brother had it.

The streetlight flickered madly. Sam was stumbling away through the evening mist, pulling Bobby with him. "Let's go. Dean'll see that."

"That's kind of the point, Sam. Your brother was _destroyed._ He got out and you can too."

Sam twisted around, face flashing with barely harnessed rage and tears in his eyes. "He's…we did this song and dance before, all those years ago a-at Stanford when he came to get me…and you know how it ended. Now there's a kid. I'm not doing this again."

"Sam…"

"We have to go."

"Just...just let him off the hook, Sam."

"I'm not making the same mistakes again. I did everything wrong before. Now, we need to go."

Bobby dug his heels in. He was stronger than he looked.

"_Get in the car or I'll put you there myself, old man_!"

Bobby did a double-take at the malice in Sam's tone. It was sinister and darker than anything he'd ever heard from the youngest Winchester. His fists were clenched and his chest heaved, and suddenly, that weak, raw thing that Bobby had rescued from a mental hospital was gone, and he didn't know what replaced it. He didn't know how much damage had been done. He didn't know what Sam was capable of.

Bobby climbed in the car and headed out of Cicero.

When they returned to the compound, there was a strange man with dirty fingers, haggard clothes and terrified eyes waiting for him just inside the gates. He'd somehow bypassed Bobby's elaborate security measures and booby traps. After the standard tests, he claimed he was Samuel Winchester even produced pictures of a young Mary and rescued pages from her journal.

Sam left two days later.

Yes, Bobby Singer had many tales to tell. He knew that the one about Sam Winchester's seemingly miraculous return from The Cage was going to be harrowing, and a happy ending wasn't a guarantee.


	4. Serenity Prayer Part 1

Wow. I've been gone for a long time. Things different got a little crazy after the death of my relative, my vacation and the approaching holidays. Then I got all of the Harry Potter books for my birthday and that was all she wrote. I haven't written much in a long time, but I'm getting back into it now that everything has calmed down. Thanks for being so patient! Let's pick up with this story where we left off! Can't wait for the new episode of Supernatural, even the stupid CW actually decides to show it this week.

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**Serenity - Part 1**

Dean Winchester was wearing gray dress pants—not even douchey Dockers, but actual "I'm A Corporate Blow-Hard" dress pants and a white shirt with a collar. He'd drawn the line at the tie Lisa had suggested as she tried for the fifteenth time to convey to Dean how important this was to Ben, and how scared he was about the public speaking and the attention on him. Dean took it to heart, because Lisa wasn't one to force or cajole or push, but she had that morning. And he'd caught Ben practicing in the bathroom mirror, ears red from embarrassment.

This was insanely important.

So Dean wore the pants and the shirt, and even stuffed the tie in his pocket. He put on the cologne and the stupid gel and met Lisa and Ben outside the school. He held Lisa's hand and high-fived Ben's friends. He sat in the little tiny school chairs and ate the refreshments, clapped for the kids who went before him.

Then Ben fist-bumped him, and headed up to the front of the colorful class room, stepping to the microphone. Lisa got out her digital camera and took pictures, but Dean leaned forward, and listened intently.

Ben's voice was muffled as he curled his paper, head down. Dean cleared his throat pointedly and Ben's eyes snapped up. Dean held them for a loaded moment and winked in reassurance. The kid pulled in a deep breath, stood up straight and started over.

"'The Wild World' by Benjamin Braden," he said and continued to read with a confidence that hadn't been there before. "_There is a wild world just beneath the surface of neighborhoods and baseball parks. A place that hasn't been discovered yet. His wise grandmother had told him about it. Denny dreamed about that place all the time: in school, during bus rides, but mostly at night. He wanted to unearth new things and embark on an adventure. One day, a dark stranger arrived at his house. He had wild eyes and a leather coat, and told stories of monsters and villains. He told Denny that he needed his help…"_

As he listened to the story Ben had written—how Denny went on adventures with the stranger—he was captivated by how good it was. It didn't sound like something an eleven-year-old would write. It sounded like the tall tales he'd heard seasoned old hunters tell at funerals or something out of a book. Dean stood up to clap when the story ended, eyes a little wet and chest puffed out with pride, as Ben accepted his trophy for winning the sixth grade literary competition.

"That's my boy," Dean awed under the applause.

Life had settled into a pleasant purgatory of lull and frenzy.

Dean and Lisa worked. They travelled as a family—camping in Wisconsin, county fairs, the Blue and Gold Game at Notre Dame. Dean had beers and poker nights with the guys. Lisa and Dean had date nights, dinner at restaurants with cloth napkins and reservations and dessert carts. Dean kept himself busy, knowing the idle time would lead to depression or backtracking into the futile task of trying to free Sam, but he was also content in a life without constant danger and a front-row seat to never-ending tragedy.

Life was just painfully, wonderfully normal.

It was something Dean hadn't had since he was four years old. He'd always mocked civilians, because of their (blissful) ignorance or their lives that didn't involve constant travel, perpetual danger and self-applied stitches. Because he couldn't have it. Now that he did, he found that he enjoyed lazy Sundays with Lisa, reading sale papers in bed or going to brunch. He relished helping Ben learn how to throw a perfect spiral and picking him up from football. He loved the nuances of a family and a home. He thrived, freed from the impossible weight of saving lives.

Luckily for Ben, in the Braden household, things went both ways. While Dean learned how to cook real food and mingle at baby showers or dinner parties, he gave Lisa and Ben the world, sharing his wanderlust with weekend trips and vacations.

Ben giggled as the bounded out of the car and across the stretch of grassy green, pulling a little girl behind him. The family, along with Lisa's best friend, Charlotte, and her daughter, Aubrey, were traveling in the rustic beauty of Colorado. The spring air was clear and the mountains were majestic peaks in the distance. It was breathtaking, life-affirming.

Dean took a bunch of pictures with his digital camera, easily walking along the trails. Lisa, even deep in conversation, slipped her hand into his. Dean kissed her temple, feeling open enough to appreciate the moment. They pushed ahead, hiking up through verdant canopies of leaves and the cacophony warbling birds. The trail ended atop an impressive cliff that overlooked a glittering river.

"Is it weird?" Lisa asked, watching the kids collecting rocks along the trail and splashing in puddles. "Knowing that you saved all of this?"

Dean's heart stuttered over a few beats, and his mood dimmed like stormclouds stamping out the sun. "I don't…really think of it like that. It feels like a sacrifice, ya know? Other people get their world and never knowing…but I lost a huge part of mine."

Lisa squeezed his hand and hugged him awkwardly, her body against his. "I didn't…mean…"

"It's fine, Lis'. I'm fine," he insisted. "Let's wrangle the kids before they bring all of the state back with us."

She smiled softly and nodded. "I think Charlotte's finding a place for the picnic."

Dean nodded and shoved his hands in his pockets. He thought carefully, not letting them wonder off into the grief or the pain. It didn't cut as deeply, feel as sharp, but the blade was always there, always digging and scraping—finding new wounds and tugging at old scars. Sam's birthday was looming, and Dean wasn't sure how he'd handle that.

Ben and Aubrey—a beautiful girl with a thick fringe of eyelashes and dimples that reminded him of Sam's—were sorting their rocks. Aubrey lifted her hair as he approaching, curls tangling in the breezes.

"_Deeean_, Aubrey's scared to go to the edge."

Ben pointed to the cliff with a weathered fence lining the drop-off. Aubrey frowned mightily at him and dropped her hair. "I'm not!"

Dean knelt down, poking Aubrey's impressive pile of rocks. "You want me to take you? I won't get too close."

A little head bobbled up and down. He pivoted in the dirt, motioning the nine-year-old to get on his back. She weighed less than one of his heavier shotguns and bounced over towards the, spinning just to hear her laugh goldenly in his ear. He walked her up and down, weaving through the clutches of visitors, brushing the railing, but never leaning on it. It looked as sturdy as a house of cards, the wood cracked and rotted. "See, it's not scary. It's kind of awesome, huh?"

"Yeah, I like it from up here."

"Good." Her little hands clasped around Dean's neck.

Lisa had asked him once if he ever wanted kids of his own. Dean shook his head almost instantly. He thought, _I've lost enough_, and _I'll be gone soon_, but said, "Ben's an honorary Winchester. That's more than enough."

Sometimes, when a little girll was chattering behind him or when Ben pointed to him on the playground and told his friends, "That's my _Deeean_," or when Lisa's little niece flashed toothless gums at him as soon as she saw him, he knew he'd been lying.

"Thanks, Uncle Dean." Charlotte waved them over and Aubrey scrambled down, running in her pink pants and pink coat over to her mother.

"Ben, get the lead out," Dean called over his shoulder.

Dean ventured towards the blanket, thinking about those fried chicken sandwiches and potato salad when he heard the splintering of wood and a collective gasp. He heard the blood-curling scream and saw Lisa running. It didn't take more than a terrified second to figure out what happened.

There was no hesitation. Arms pumping, sprinting, Dean tore off his coat as he plowed through the horrified gawkers. "Move! Move! Out of the way!" He thundered.

People parted, gave way, as he ran.

His fight-or-flight was still honed, a year of downtime didn't trump thirty years of training. A skilled scan of the crowd produced Ben's abandoned backpack and a broken railing before increased his speed and launched himself off the edge of the cliff.

He careened towards downward, dodging the rocks by the narrowest berth while branches and roots whipped him in the face and arms. Wide eyes open to watch the fall—magnificent swirls of sapphire and ivory sunlight. His fought the urge to flail and scramble for purchase, battled the violent wind and G-forces to lock his body tight in preparation for the water. Impact was a bewildering shock of cold, a breaking pain, and loss of breath, but he didn't and couldn't care because Ben was in the water, scared and probably hurt. Dean swam hard through still frigid waters, searching. He dove beneath the undulating blue until his lungs burned and his heart intensified from lack of oxygen. When he surfaced, panting and choking, he heard strangled breaths and panicked flails. If he squinted, he could see a head of water-matted hair bobbing as it trying to stay above water, trying to fight the nasty current.

"BEN! Hang on, I'm coming!" He swam hard and fast, fingers snagging the collar of his coat just as Ben began to sink.

Dean inspected him quickly and found that while Ben was petrified, all gray skin and trembling limbs, he didn't seem to be obviously injured. Instinct powered him it, tearing off Ben's the jacket that weighed him down. He pressed Ben against his chest, securing Ben an arm around him in a grip that was stronger than iron. "Next time let me know if you wanna go swimmin'," Dean sputtered, hoping for a reaction.

He got nothing.

The wide river that had seemed to placid and calm mere minutes ago was anything but. It had propelled Ben so far out from the shore, and the world that had once been parking lots and enormous sequoias and car songs had shrunken to marbled gray, frigid water and blue sky.

"I got you, kid. C-can you talk to me?" Dean asked. He was tiring quickly, the burn of fatigue sparking through his muscles.

The toes of Ben's sneakers bobbed in the water. He twitched, a little hand coming up to hook around the arm that held him. "I…f-fell, I think. I wanted to see…"

The monster of the current wrenched harder against him, and threatened to separate them with watery fingers. "The railing broke, Ben, it wasn't your fault. Does anything hurt?"

"I…c-can't tell. Cold."

"We're almost there." Dean lied. They had a long way to go. "Put those soccer skills to good use. Kick for me, dude."

By the time they reached shallow waters and rocky shore, Dean was utterly depleted. His body felt thick and heavy, like he was made out of molasses and bricks instead of muscle and bone. He heaved Ben towards the riverbank and crawled up after, pointed rocks dug into his palms, the consequent pain revived him a bit. As soon as he was clear, Dean collapsed on his side. His chest heaved as he sucked in harsh, wet breaths. He coughed in an attempt to clear to throat. He felt his diaphragm spasm and soon he throwing up silty water.

He hadn't been here, in that feral place, where he operated off base instinct just to survive. He'd worked doggedly for nearly a year to put himself back together. It had been arduous and painful and the biggest damn challenge of his life. Now, he back there again, in a body that rattled when he breathed, wouldn't obey him not even with adrenaline glinting through his veins.

He was falling apart. The stitches that held him together were popping and tearing, and devastation seeped through.

The last time he was here, Sam fell.

"_Deeean_," Ben's voice was feather-light and echoing. The hand on his face was stirringly warm. "Are you okay?"

He lifted his dripping head to Ben's face, which held a wry smirk that he'd stolen from Dean.

"That was fun. Can we do it again?" The sarcasm was palpable.

"Smart ass." Dean peeled himself off the riverbank and inspected the kid. He carefully patted down his arms and legs, along his ribs. "Any of this hurt?"

"No…'m just c-ccold," Ben chattered.

It was enough to stave off a hellish attack of post-apocalyptic stress. Dean willed himself to his feet. "Let's go find your mom, and get yelled at." He stumbled forward, leaning on Ben more than he should have.

"Thanks for saving me, _Deeean_."

"Yeah, kid, ditto."

There was an ambulance ride that Ben enjoyed. Hospital tests he definitely did not. Dean handled it all—the warming blankets, the tubes and monitors, the antibiotics, the broken ribs and the fever—in stride. Lisa stayed with Ben, a decision made with a mere flicker of the eyes.

He slept shivering under thick blankets and dreamed that Sam was there. He heard his voice, huskier than normal, but distinctly Sam. He felt him scratching the inside of his forearm like he always did when he was hurt and a bit out of his head. It was more than vivid than the dreams he'd had in the past months without him.

Sam was tangible.

"Sammy?" Dean jerked awake, sweating and bruised. He blinked at the darkness of the room, checking the shadows. "Sammy?" He hoped. He prayed. He willed his brother there.

Quiet answered him, empty and lonely. Dean's head flopped back against the pillow, ribs aching and chest tight like the Impala was parked on his sternum. He settled into the discomfort that came with IVs and oxygen in his nose and a freakin' catheter, and a pesky dive off a forty-foot cliff. But as he relaxed, he noticed that the skin of his forearm was hot. Mightily, Dean pulled up his arm, squinting in the dark. He clearly saw four long groves painted in irritated red.

"_Sam, please_."

Lisa somehow materialized at his side, and Dean had the feeling he'd lost time. She fed him ice chips and kissed his forehead. "Dean, it's okay. You've got a fever, and the painkillers are pretty strong. You're just a little out of it. We're still in Colorado, remember?"

Pain was stronger than he was, winning and overwhelming. Something wasn't right. It all felt off. "Were you here the whole time?"

"No, babe, I've been with Ben most of the night, but the nurses were worried about you. I've been going back and forth."

Dean licked his lips, wanting the yank the damned oxygen out of his nose. "How's the kid?"

Lisa's eyes sparkled in the half-light. "His lungs sound good, but he's going to be a walking bruise for while. I think he's excited about that, though."

He laughed stiffly, lids fluttering. "He'll prolly run to show that stupid Parker kid the second we get home."

"Yeah, probably. Rest, Dean…okay? Things will be clearer when you wake up. You'll still be the guy who saved my son when you wake up." Lisa said, lips warm against his temple.

Dean closed his eyes as she raked her fingers through his head, and tried to convince himself it was all in his head.

-S-

Peace didn't find Dean until two days later when the potent hospital drugs were out of his system and he was in bundled in a hotel room bed with Ben sleeping beside him, Lisa buttressing him in. Lisa's fingers were limply threaded to his, arms stretched over the top of the pillow.

Ben was a trooper, bruised from hip to neck and happy to show everyone the smears of crimson and violet. He was snoring now, and when Dean looked at the lax features, he could see the man he was growing into, the son he he'd become.

Now, he was accepting of it, accepting that Sam was cursed to The Cage for eternity, accepting that he wasn't, accepting that he liked picnics and school plays and baby showers and barbecues.

Dean Winchester had to go back to his past—to the life of a warrior—to realize what he had.

Because life went on.


	5. Serenity Prayer Part 2

Hola! I'm back again. I struggled with his part of the story, because the show veered in a direction where my story did not and I was consequently blocked. In the end, I decided to plow on with my original idea. Please let me know what you think, especially about Celeste as she might pop up in future stories.

Thanks!

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Serenity Prayer - Part 2

In a movie theater in Des Moines, Sam Winchester realized something was very wrong with him.

The theater wasn't more than a little rundown with old seats, sticky floors and the unpleasant odor of old popcorn, but the entire audience was laughing, the woman next to him had actually snorted cola through her nose.

And Sam didn't understand why. He continued to watch the movie, the bluish-white light of the projector flickering above his head, and really focused, on what the characters were saying, how they were dressed, their actions. The male, a pudgy guy with no neck and a weird accent, was so nervous when the hot girl arrived at his desk that he fell backwards in his chair, his girth and the impact knocked over the wall of the cubicle, then another, then another, until a dozen walls fell like dominos, scattering people and flinging reams of paper into the air.

The theater swelled with laughter. Sam frowned and turned to the lady next to him to find her doubled over with giggles yet again, laughing so hard tears dribbled down her cheeks. Sam didn't get it.

And it dawned on him, facts sliding into the place like the tumblers of a lock. He tried to remember the last time he laughed since his return from the pit, more than six months ago. He tried to remember the last time he cried or yelled or been so overwrought with emotion that he had to express it.

But he hadn't. He was even-keeled, locked in some kind of emotional purgatory, where he suffered, he distressed, he worried about Dean, except it was internalized, and distant.

Sam watched the rest of the movie, determined to enjoy it.

He never laughed once or even cracked a smile.

He did some research, but the only lore about humans returning from Hell was about Dean, so he spoke to his grandfather, who had no leads having just returned from Heaven himself, so finally, Sam called Bobby and he hooked him with a faith healer in Brooklyn.

It was how Sam found himself sitting on the stoop in a busy city street waiting for a healer who apparently couldn't tell time. He leaned patiently against the wrought-iron railing, letting his eyes unfocus as people streamed passed. The sky darkened, light systematically fading away until the streetlights snapped on. It grew colder. Tired of waiting, Sam stood and descended the steps. As his foot hit the sidewalk, he heard the fervent clicking of heels and squinted down the street to see a woman in a violently pink coat running impressively in heels, the tail of her multi-colored scarf dangling dangerously between her feet. As she drew nearer through the fog, Sam could see that she was clearly frantic and bogged down by her gigantic purse and a bag of groceries. "I'm late!" she hollered as she skidded to a halt at the steps, panting. "You're my six o'clock, right? And I'm…so unforgivably late!" She pushed up the sleeve of her fuchsia coat, and cursed as she saw the time. "You're Samuel, right?"

He raised his eyebrows and nodded, stuffing his hands in his pockets. "Sam, yes."

"I'm so sorry!" The flustered woman said pleadingly as she dug into the depths of her purse one-handed. "Work ran late; I was researching all day. I have, like, no milk, and I needed supplies, so…I thought I'd stop and get some, because I was early but that meant taking another train and of course, that train delayed and…"

Sam gently took the bag she was holding out of her arms without the healer even noticing. She kept talking about crying babies and elitist advertising executives as she found her keys and led him up to her fourth floor walk-up. She was unlocking the door to her apartment when she stopped talking and gazed up at him with an embarrassed smile. "I'm sorry. I tend to pratter on when I'm frazzled. I'm Celeste, the incredibly rude and tardy healer." Sam shook her cold, ungloved hand.

Celeste, as a healer, was not what he had expected, he thought as he entered her apartment. Her home was a cramped little one-bedroom filled with colorful objects, bright paintings and lots of light. Sam had been to a few healers before and their homes were usually shadowed, dusty and dank, smelling of candle wax with the crackle of dark magick charging the air. Sam watched as she took off her coat to reveal a smart pin-striped pencil skirt, a white button-up, and curves he wasn't too broken to appreciate. She stepped out of her shoes that were so high, they added at least five inches, joined him on the couch. Her auburn hair was long and arrow straight, and she had smooth, olive skin flecked with chocolate freckles and marble-like, hazel-green eyes. Sam was a little skeptical of her powers, and wondered if she was moonlighting just to pawn cash off strangers.

"Don't worry, I'm not ripping you off." Celeste said calmly as if she could read his mind. If she were truly a healer, she probably had. "I just have a life outside of…well, the mystical stuff."

"I never thought that—"

"It's not nice to lie, Sam." She said softly. "This won't work if you're not open to me."

"You work in advertising?" There was no irony behind the question.

"Yeah, researcher-slash-copywriter. It's a little demanding, but the pay is good. I can't say the same for your line of work. I went law school, but failed the bar twice. Can't bring myself to try again."

Sam nodded, knowingly. "The test for New York state is the hardest," he said wistfully. "I was pre-law at Stanford before hunting invaded."

Celeste's face softened with sympathy. "I'm sorry your life took that turn. And I'm sorry about your Ellen and Jo."

Sam's eyes rounded with surprise and he didn't pull any punches. "Are you a telepath?"

She smiled cunningly, like she had more secrets than her "Sex and the City" wardrobe and apartment would led one to believe. "You're not exactly unknown in the hunting world."

"You didn't answer the question."

"Relax, counselor. I am very good at _both_ of my jobs. I haven't read your mind. You won't let me in. This won't work until you do, Sam. So, relax, we can just talk for now. Are you hungry? I bought stuff for frittatas."

Over potato and spinach frittatas, Sam found himself asking Celeste more about her life than the other way around and he felt himself unguarding more and more as she answered every question openly and without hesitation. Celeste's grandmother had been an incredible seer and healer as had her mother, but Celeste had fought the gift. She wanted a normal life, and Sam felt instantaneous camaraderie as she told him about the impassioned fights with her mom and her turbulent teenage years. Whether it was fate or just irony or just a terrible coincidence, she fell in love with a hunter, and rescued him from the brink when a witch had hexed him, and eventually started helping his friends and friends of friends and victims. Sam realized how deep into the business she must be when she barely flinched when he mentioned the apocalypse or the notion that Lucifer was real and had been free. She'd figured out how to walk the path that Sam couldn't.

"I think you're ready, Sam," she said as standing. "Follow me."

They walked about five steps into her narrow bedroom that was decorated in varying shades of violet, and smelled of vanilla. She instructed him to lie on the bed. Sam toed his shoes off and acquiesced, prepared to drink some disgusting potion of pureed worms and bat wings or spend the night tripping on smoke from the rare herbs. He watched, head falling onto a pillow, as she poured a lime green liquid into a highball glass and placed a festively slotted spoon over the top. She balanced a soggy cube of sugar on the spoon, struck a match and lit the sugar cube. She tipped it into the glass and the whole thing burned green. Celeste waited a few moments and doused the flames with a shot of icy water. She passed the glass to Sam. "Drink it. All of it."

Sam regarded the glass suspiciously before he gulped it down. The liquid was sweet as it trailed down his throat, but it left an intense burn down his throat that made his eyes water. He coughed, both at the strong taste of anise and the heat of the liquor. "Got a kick," he muttered as the heat spread to his chest.

She made another and knocked it back, coughing and sputtering at the taste. She lit a few candles and set a coil of sage to burn on the bedside table.

And that was it. Sam scanned her table and saw not one container of meadowsweet, no adorable bunnies cowering in cages.

Celeste sat on the bed as Sam stared at the ceiling, apparently waiting. It was silent, save for the sounds of the city—a siren wailed in the distance, a dog barked somewhere below them, a television was playing a game show in the apartment above them. He wondered why she was merely sitting there with her hands clasped and not looking at him, and then he felt a warmness blossom in his chest and spread fluidly throughout his body, like oil over ice. And Sam became aware of the life surrounding him—the particles in the air and the molecules in his skin and the cells of his blood all throbbed with the electric glint of being, danced to the cadence of his heart. He could see it too, globs and amoebas of colors, neon and ethereal, flitting and sparking before his eyes. Sam might have moaned, curling his toes at the splendor around him. He wondered why he hadn't been able to see it before. Why no one had told him that everything had an aura and a pulse and soul. He wanted to stay in this heightened plane forever where he was transcended and unburdened.

Celeste shifted on the bed, her spindly fingers hovering inches above his belly and heart, but never touching. Sam panted hotly, wanting her to touch. He felt vibrant and kinetic and sensual, and he wanted to share it with her, and with everyone. She spoke in a chant and her voice was honey and feathers, and Sam could see it too, a prism fluttering and jerking through the air.

Without warning, the thrilling beauty cascading warped. The wisps of unknown colors gnarled into twists of tendrils of hellfire. The sounds that hummed like urban music morphed in the gnashing of chains and the pitiful bawling of a billions of souls that echoed out of reach, like ghosts overhead, because he was deep in the mine—in a prison made of torment and brimstone alone, except for the silver-tongued voice and the glimmer of trembling wings. There was blood on his hands and a scream in his throat as he was blasted with pain so unfathomable it splintered his spirit. But Sam was strong, fortified by the knowledge that he had won and it was finished. He could fight for a thousand years, because he was his father's son and Dean's little brother and he could protect everything that made him Sam Winchester. He just had to push it down, hold it tight and bare the pain—

Smoke wafted into his nose, making him choke. He rolled over on the soft mattress coughing, and struggled upright, sickened and bewildered. Sam felt winded and raw as if he'd run a marathon through his greatest tragedies. He rubbed his eyes with a trembling fist, and stared at the flames and didn't know where he was, down below or up above. It took a minute, but he remembered the girly bedspread and the sounds of Brooklyn. He was in the healer's apartment. The candles on the bedside table had tipped over and set the smoldering sage aflame. Reflexively, he snuffed it out on the bottom the large ashtray it sat on and righted the candles.

Celeste was gone. He didn't know what had happened or if it had even worked. His head ached a little, and there was still a pleasant thrill in his chest. But there had been flashes of what he undoubtedly knew as The Cage, and it was that knowledge that powered him off the bed into the hallway, tilting and angling away from the light. The bathroom door was ajar, and leaning to the side, Sam could see Celeste hunching over the toilet, and a beat later he understood why. Sam didn't feel too forward stepping into the bathroom and soaking a cold cloth. Celeste retched again, skin clammy and covered in tears and he swept her hair over one shoulder and dropped the cloth on her neck.

She trembled and sobbed, and the second he placed a hand on her shoulder, he knew with the same steadfast certainty that she had seen what he had. She had been in The Cage with him. "The frittatas were probably a bad idea," Sam whispered lamely as he stooped on the peach bathmat.

Celeste gaped at him with those unique hazel eyes that were flared with the same despair and terror ebbing through him. "You went to Hell." Her voice was reed thin and wavering, but it wasn't a question.

"Yes."

She sobbed. "_The Cage_."

"Yes."

"You probably should have led with that."

"I'm sorry. I couldn't…I didn't know…" he stammered.

"You thought I was a hack and you didn't trust me. I get it." There was anger clinging to every word. And then it vanished. "Sam, _thank you_."

Sam ignored her. "I haven't…remembered anything from my time down there, so I had no idea that you would get a face full."

"Son of a bitch!" She cursed, ire returning. "Sam, you don't have to apologize. Just warn the person digging around in your psyche." She was a mess with trails of mascara down her cheeks and an unhealthy pallor. Celeste moved slowly and the wild effervescence had vanished, and had left her weak and slightly gray. Sam felt guilty.

"It'll pass, don't worry." Celeste said with wave of a hand. "Let me freshen up and we'll talk."

Sam opted to return to the living room and not the bedroom as if the evil he'd revisited still lingered in there. Celeste joined him a few minutes later, face scrubbed or make-up and a puffy pink bathrobe over her skirt and untucked blouse. She sat on the coffee table in front of him. "I think I know why you feel so detached from everything." She rubbed her hands together as she spoke. "The supernatural can affect the human spirit far easier than good ol' fashioned real life. It can leave brands or even devour it completely."

He already knew that. "That's what happens to demons, right?"

"Well, yes, but that takes centuries, if it works at all. You're a fighter, Sam, and you're a lot stronger than you realize. I do read minds, and I'm damn good at it, but I couldn't read your mind or even your mood until you let me. You can self-protect better than anyone I've ever met. And that's what saved your spirit."

Sam frowned to convey his confusion. Maybe he was better off not knowing if his soul had withered away from hell and the demon blood and taking Lucifer inside his own body, leaving him cold and indifferent, unable to laugh or love or care if people lived or died.

Celeste placed her hands over his, easily regaining his attention. She didn't look at him like some kind of human-demon hybrid; he recognized the kind reassurance in her features. "You don't need to be afraid. Sam, you are quite human. Do you remember feeling that burst of protectiveness, the need to fight?"

"Yeah…"

"That was you, protecting your humanity."

It was the last thing he'd expected to hear.

Celeste grabbed his eyes and held them as tightly as she had his hands. "Essentially, you hid your humanity from Lucifer. He wanted to strip you of it, and you kept it from his reach. You buried it, behind memories and thoughts. He could still destroy some of the things that make you Sam Winchester…and that's why you can't remember things and feel so disconnected. But you'd already knew how to overpower him because you'd done it before. He didn't win, Sam. Not for a second."

Sam shook his head in disbelief. "But I'm broken. I don't feel anything anymore. I've seen monsters tear into people apart and I feel nothing."

She shrugged with a humorless laugh. "Why would you? How many horrible things have you experienced? It's like this: if I cut you with a knife, it would hurt, of course, but not as much if I stabbed you with it. You're desensitized to bad things because you've lived through far worse."

"How do I fix it?"

Celeste crossed her arms over her chest. "You tell me."

"You're the healer. Gimme a stock of those green cocktails..." He sputtered.

"Absinthe isn't a cure; it's just a way of greasing the wheels." Celeste informed him. She studied him, eyes narrowed and gaze boring deep. "You've felt extreme emotion before, and you probably didn't like it. You probably ran away from it…"

Sam's entire body seized up with a cold, immediate refusal. He wagged his head back and forth defiantly as he thought of that night under the streetlight in the Indiana suburb, watching Dean eat dinner with Lisa and Ben. How emotion crashed over him like a tsunami and he had very nearly drowned, bereft and adrift. It made him feel giddy and violent and feral. After everything that had happened with Lucifer and before, Sam needed to retain control. "No. Maybe…it's not so bad. I mean, there could be worse things, especially in my line of work."

"Sam, you know this isn't right. You wouldn't have come here if you thought it was."

"I can't be out of control again. I have to stay me and…that night, I felt…_everything_. I can't do that again."

Celeste opened her mouth at the same time Sam's cell phone rang. He leapt on the interruption, tugging the phone out of his coat pocket and answered it gruffly.

"Where are you, boy? I've been calling for hours." It was Bobby, not Samuel.

"I'm off the grid for a few days. What's going on?"

Bobby cleared his throat. "Thought you'd like to know that your brother is in the hospital. Cedar Springs, just north of Yellowstone."

Sam clutched the phone so tightly it cracked. "Is he okay? What got him?"

"Nothing got him, except bad luck. He took a header off a cliff into a river to save the kid. I'm shady on the details, but it's been twelve hours and he's still in there, so…"

"…it's bad," he finished. "Yeah, um…thanks, Bobby."

"Go see your brother, Sam."

Sam hung up and stared at the phone. Celeste was wrong about everything she'd told him. The very idea of his brother careening headlong over a cliff and the consequent fall to the hard water below inspired a surge of trepidation so intense that he couldn't breathe right. It was followed by a jolt of something fierce and sustaining that it compelled him to act. Sam hastily shoved an envelope of cash into Celeste's hands and bolted down eight flights of stairs.

He left his Charger in New York, flew to Denver and rented another car for the drive to the hospital. He slipped into the hospital with a practiced ease usually reserved for sneaking out of one. He stayed in the shadows, ducking into a patient's room when Lisa emerged from an elevator. Dean looked horrible and small, swaddled in layers of blankets and flushed with fever. Sam acted on long-buried instincts, pulling up a chair and gently unearthing Dean's limp arm from the blankets, making sure not to pull out any IVs or monitors. The same compulsion that coerced him to his weapons and car and luggage a thousand miles away, directed him to gently rub the smooth skin inside his forearm with his fingertips. He'd done it a million times when Dean was sick or hurt, and it had anchored him when he was floating in delirium. This time, it provided more solace and reassurance for Sam, brought the world more solidly under his feet, and his humanity closer to the surface.

He remembered things he had forgotten like that the smell of the Impala and that liked to read the _Harry Potter_ books out loud when they drove between hunts and that Jess sang off-key in the shower.

"_Sammy_."

Dean's head rolled restlessly on the pillow before turning towards him, mumbling as he did when he was on heavy drugs. Sam slipped his hand Dean's and squeezed softly. "It's okay, big brother. I'm okay."

Dean tossed more fervently, and his voice grew stronger. "Ben…Ben…it's all right…jus' kick."

Sam smiled, albeit wistfully. Celeste was right that being with Dean would help him, cure him. He knew that the powerful attraction that had brought him here was the same thing that compelled him to leave. He hadn't been able to pinpoint what he'd experienced outside of Lisa's house or back in Celeste's apartment when Bobby called until now-it was love, fraternal and unbreakable. Sam finally understood that while evil had threatened to pull him apart; love would put him back together and seal the cracks.

Love had made Sam do many things, and as gut-wrenching as it was, this wasn't nearly the hardest one. He rewarded himself another minute with his brother to push the matted, dirty hair off his forehead and place a big hand over his heart just to feel its reassuring beat. And then he exited the hospital, moving through the shadows, because Sam was still utterly unstable, haunted by demons his brother couldn't kill (try as he might) and Dean had a family now.

Because Sam had fallen to ensure that life went on, especially Dean's.


End file.
